The One You Love

The One You Love
Whitney-Faith Smith


I, in a bed lying 
and waiting,
in sickness propped up
as if I thought 
He was coming
to give me help

in the healing, to raise
from imperfection what could 
be made whole by Him. In this room,
the sun’s rays slip from view.

Darkness chased light.
Night has slithered 
within me.


Black, can’t move, 
hard stone against my back,
suffocating, blind,
the smell of myrrh.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
“Come out!”

Immediately my swaddled  
feet strike the dirt.
No sight to guide me.
As if the rope of the
high priest were around 
my waist, out of death I am 

“Take off the grave clothes 
and let him go. 
Warm hands touch me;
Tomb behind me 
I see the Son.